In the Night
by the.eye.does.not.SEE
Summary: "She longed for arms that knew how to hold her." A J/O drabble.
**A/N** : A random J/O drabble.

* * *

She came in the nights, late, after he had long ago finished dinner and had already changed and settled into bed. The first time, she broke in. The other times, he left the door unlocked.

He didn't ask for an explanation, didn't say a word, when she appeared. Not the first time, and not any time after it. He just sat up in bed, stared at her standing there in the doorway, and waited. She didn't say anything either, though he could tell it was tearing at her—to speak, not to speak—and he wished there was something he could say to make it better.

But he had nothing to say. Their relationship—whatever it was—had turned into an endless cycle of him not speaking, and her standing there waiting, losing more and more faith in him the longer it went on. He wished he could—wished he could speak, wished he could explain, wished he could give her the answers she so badly wanted. But silence meant safety for her, and there was nothing in this world he would not sacrifice to ensure her safety.

He would ruin this second chance between them—this _last_ chance—if it meant that she would stay safe.

"I'm surprised you have a bed," she said finally, that first night. They were the first words she'd spoken to him since they'd stopped seeing each other two weeks before.

"A bed?" he couldn't help but laugh a little, caught off-guard by the comment. He glanced around him, as if the rationale for her opinion might be written there on the sheets. He looked back up at her. "Why are you surprised I have a bed? What did you expect I'd have?"

"I don't know. A broken mattress on the floor. A pit full of rubble. A bed of nails."

He smiled at the last one. "A bed of nails is still a bed," he pointed out.

She leaned against the doorframe. "Just like a silent informant is still an informant?"

He bowed his head at that, succumbing to the judgment. _I don't have a choice,_ he would say if he could. But it had all be said before, in that earlier life. No need to burden her with it now.

"Is there a reason you're here?" he asked. "A reason you broke in?" he added pointedly, when she didn't immediately answer.

"You keep tabs on me," she replied. "What, am I not allowed to keep tabs on you too?"

He grimaced a second, but then forced himself to push it away. He'd been too obvious, looking out for her. Of course she'd spotted him. He should've stuck to the shadows more.

"Why have you been watching me?" she asked.

"Just to make sure you're safe. It's purely for—"

"—the mission," she finished for him. " _Ri-ight_." She drew out the word like she was itching for another right, and looking at her standing so casually in the doorway of his bedroom, looking at her standing there as if her presence meant nothing when it was _everything_ to him, he decided maybe a fight wasn't so bad.

"What do you want me to say?" he shot back. "That it's not for the mission? That it's purely for me? That I'm scared for you? That I love you and want to protect you and I will do _anything_ —"

"Maybe," she cut in in a whisper, so soft that it silenced him faster than any shout could. He held his breath; he was the waiting one, now. She had the answers. Her eyes, which had been trained on the floor, rose slowly to his. "Maybe that is what I want you to say," she whispered.

She pushed off the wall, and he watched, frozen, as she walked towards the bed, walked towards the far side he did not occupy, and sat on it.

"Maybe that's exactly what I want to hear," she continued. "Maybe I want to hear you feel something for me; maybe I want to hear you're scared for me." She looked at him and held his gaze through the dark and the silence and all these new words. "Maybe I don't want to be just an asset to the mission anymore. Maybe I want to be a real person."

"You are a real person."

"I'm a trained killer."

"So am I."

She blinked and leaned back, as if that somehow surprised her.

Then the next second she bent forward, and kissed him.

It was not with the ferocity he was expecting, nor the hunger. It did not have the edge of fury or violence to it that her words had had recently. But nor was it soft, or loving, or even very affectionate.

In the end, when she pulled back, the only description that came to him was _dry_. Reflexively, he licked his lips.

"Look, Jane," he began quietly, at the risk of ruining everything once again, "I really don't think we should—"

"I'm not here for that," she interrupted quietly.

He opened his mouth to protest—she was taking off her shoes and socks, her jacket, what else was she here for?—but then she stopped taking things off. She dropped her jacket on top of her shoes, and then she picked up the covers and slid into bed with him. He stared at her but she did not look up as she moved towards him, and wrapped an arm around his middle.

"I just want to be a real person to you," she whispered. "Not an asset, not a fiancée, just..." She pressed her face into his shoulder, hiding it. Her voice was muffled against the fabric of his t-shirt when she spoke, but he heard her clearly. "I just want you to hold me, okay?" Her voice had grown tight. "You're... You're the only one that knows how. The only one that does it right."

He grew still beneath her, and she waited for him to shove her off. She waited for his low voice to order, _Get out_. She waited for him to kiss her.

He did none of those things.

Instead, he turned his head into her hair, breathed her in deep, and lifted an arm to rest atop hers slung over his middle. He pressed a kiss to the part of her hair, and shifted closer so their sides touched. He whispered, "Everything's gonna be fine," and she curled into him like a dying leaf lit aflame.

"Promise?" she whispered against him.

He smiled, and continued the fantasy for one more word: "Promise," he whispered, holding her close. He closed his eyes, like she had, and pretended to believe it.

They laid like that for a time. They curled into each other in the darkness of his apartment, in the bed she didn't expect him to have, in this life he had never wanted for either of them. He grew drunk on her scent, intoxicated by her warmth, and he was years back in the past—neck-deep in memories—when she spoke, and brought him back to the unpalatable present.

"When you can't stand it anymore, kick me out," she whispered. Her voice was hoarse, but her breath was warm against him. "I'll go without complaint, I swear."

He didn't say anything for a long while. Minutes, maybe hours, passed. She might be asleep. But he had found his voice, and he would use it.

"I don't want you to go."


End file.
